Monday, May 15, 2006

Beer O'clock

It's the people that make the difference in the world, in the moment, for the times you remember, and the way you feel about where you are at the time. Half a decade ago during one of Cali's hottest summers I was between jobs. I remember the time specifically because it felt like the rubber on my flipflops melted on the sidewalk when I walked to the store. It was the time when there were actually a lot of 7-11s around, strange how you only find them in Bangkok now.

I keep mentioning him because he's always been around. In kind of like the way you wake up with bad breath in the morning, Drew is always sitting on my shoulder telling me what I should be doing and often he's wrong. This one particular weekend I hear his trademark Rockford Files car brakes screeching in my driveway. This was his other car, the gold 75 transam with unlimited tire ablation factor and a million miles on the odometer is up to my front door and out pops Drew. He's topless in Cammo shorts and sunglasses and wearing a sombraro.

He gives me his shit eating grin, holds up a Corona and yells, "va sur, mi amigo!!!", or something like that.

I'd just woken up and extracted myself from the barcalounge I keep on my roof for those nights when the Santa Ana blows in making outside living just perfect. It was uncomfortable because I had not discovered Smith and Hawken just yet and my back was stiff. I was thinking of going to a chiropractor, but the fact that they're all charlatans always reminds me to not go.

I'm squinting at him, at his ridiculous car, and his pathetic excuse for abs. Seeing the beer I'm mildly amused at the idea of breakfast protein and another "drew-adventure".

Back inside, in the kicthen, I'm reaching for the coffee and it's cold because I never set the timer right. Bad idea. Drew is right behind me and I know he's looking for the bottle opener because he's rummaging through the draws. He finds one, and I hear the noise of beer opening. I'm instantly transported to my childhood sitting with my father on the deck listening to him recite Dangerfield jokes while I help GI Joe aim his rifle at some adversary.

"Are we going or are we going? How come you're not ready", Drew is really animated in the morning, and yet a boring sap in the evening, which explains why he never gets laid.

"Going where, fatboy?"

Drew swallows half the contents of the bottle in one gulp and burps, "Debbie's party, remember, Mexico, this weekend, the assholes from Paramount?"

The whole world slips into place, my focus is gained, I notice the hairs on my toes, I remember my cable bill is due in four days, and yes, I promised Debbie that I'd go to her beach party and I'm all of a sudden feeling anxious to get going. Of course, that's all in my head. I'm lucky my body hasn't caught up with me or we'd have some problems with land speed records and the sound barrier, so I obnoxiously brush past drew, grab the other Corona in his hand and the bottle opener.

"Gimme five minutes to shower so I don't smell like you, and can you check how much ammo I have for the Gloch?"

Beer in the shower after a hard night partying is good, so long as you don't drop the bottle.

Yes it's a quaint throw back to our British colonisation. You see we forgot to have a civil war - or perhaps it was just too hot to bother...

Although it would seem our Prime Minister is now actually making a late start for Australia to become an American state. So we may end up dropping the Lord afterall. Although I imagine in certain circles that could be a problem too.

In London, we say Veuve O'Clock, because champers is drank like water here. Thanks for stopping by my blog; i look forward to reading yours in the future. I like your evocative of california, stream o' consciousness style.